Our Ribbons Last
by fleetingfantasy
Summary: It's silly for us not to be together - on the night before Christmas, Fuji returns after a fight. TezuFuji sap.


**Title:** our ribbons last.  
><strong>CharactersPairings:** TezuFuji.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T for throwaway mention of contraception.  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>pure sap and sentences on a cross-country marathon.  
><strong>Length:<strong> ~1,600  
><strong>Summary:<strong> it's silly for us not to be together - on the night before Christmas, Fuji returns after a fight.

**Notes:** future!fic, written for the holiday season. Two weeks late - I know, I know, but I had no laptop and pretty much no internet since Christmas. Actually, I was feeling all squishy and marshmallow-y for the last few days and I think it's so so so apparent even more than Rudolph's nose, because this fic is pure shameless unadulterated WAFF. That's right, three additional adjectives.

* * *

><p><strong>our ribbons last.<strong>

_- these ties are spun by our own hands._

_Deck the Halls_ is ringing in the air, one of those obnoxious outdoor speakers, sounding scratchy and antique like a gramophone with a bad record needle; but these things no one ever notices, not when they're tucked in dining tables with red tablecloths with those wonderfully tacky gold floral trimmings, holding plastic forks in hand and eyes sparkling over cakes piled with white artificially-flavoured buttercream, giggling and then moving on to footsie under the table - all very happy things and basically everything Fuji isn't doing right now, really.

Fuji supposes it's his fault - call it karma, call it a lapse of logic, call it whatever you want, but the next time he storms out of the house in a fit of fury or idiocy or whatever it was at that time, not important anymore, the next time he runs out he'll make sure it's not quite so close to cold and Christmas.

There's a couple cuddling in the park bench, all blushing kisses and _dokidoki_ and Fuji thinks he's doing the world a favour when he flings a condom he's bought at the minimart just for this, right smack dab on the guy's cheek, because the old ladies by the bicycle stands are gasping all scandalized and not bothering to move away.

Moping, Eiji calls it. When Fuji mopes he enjoys throwing contraceptives at random cuddly strangers.

The couple blushes even more, something once thought improbable, and then steals away. All very adorable, all very depressing.

It's the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back, so to speak, because Fuji turns on his heel and in probably not so corny terms, lets his heart guide his feet, humming to the bloody speaker's _falalalala_ like nobody's business.

To the bar third from the intersection, quaint little place with the music Tezuka likes, the green tea Tezuka's partial to, the chairs Tezuka finds agreeable, Tezuka this Tezuka that - and if Fuji's just a little more honest to himself he'll know the reason why all the roads in his thoughts lead to Tezuka somehow, and if he's a _lot_ more honest to himself he'll want it no other way.

But honest or not Tezuka's still the reason he turns and lays his fingers on lacquered wooden handles and doesn't debate whether to push the door open or bolt.

So there's the object of Fuji's thoughts at the moment - at almost every moment, really - sitting all calm and collected like granite in the quietest corner of the bar, how typical, and Fuji does have to hold back a giggle. Tezuka's head is tilted in the way it always is when he listens to Stevie Wonder and sure enough Wonder's crooning over the speakers, _silver bells, silver bells_, in a voice like marijuana for the ears and all in all it's a very cozy scene.

"Tezuka," Fuji murmurs, and he's almost but not quite yet forgotten how nice that name rolls off his tongue sometimes. He doesn't think Tezuka can hear, what with all the distance and the chatter and clatter of pretty porcelain, but Tezuka's always been good at hearing him, and he turns his head and gives Fuji this blank stare like he can't believe Fuji's really there.

Tezuka says, "Fuji," filled with all kinds of relief like he's actually _happy_ to see him there, and, blame him for being a dumb, hopeless man, but honest to God his heart starts zipping mad and he's kind of overcome with the urge to just glomp that man sitting in the corner right there.

But Fuji's trying to be cool, and all that. So he settles with walking closer and slipping an offhand remark, "It's a Saturday, so I thought you'd be here."

Fuji also decides to smile, as if he's been smiling at Tezuka the past few days - as if Tezuka hasn't been burning the midnight oil like Fuji knows he would, that poor man, trying not to pace around the living room, waiting for when Fuji raps his knuckles against the door, and it might be hopelessly sadistic or he's just hopelessly maudlin but the thought breathes a little more truth in the smile, makes butterflies in his stomach flutter all crazy giddy-like, colours his cheeks one shade darker.

It's silent for some few moments, Tezuka sipping his tea with proper decorum and in no hurry at all, while Fuji makes himself comfortable on the chair next to Tezuka and can't help feeling like this is where he belongs.

When Tezuka speaks, he asks something rather difficult to answer without laying some cards open on the table, and Fuji's someone who prefers placing cards face down. "What made you come back?"

Reflex has Fuji blurt out, "I ran out of film," with a teasing sort of smile, and it's not exactly a lie because there's a camera in his slingbag but even not-being-honest Fuji knows it's a long way from the truth.

Tezuka sighs and keeps looking at his tea, a mixture of tiredness and understanding and acceptance and undertones of fondness all rolled up in one foggy puff of breath, and Fuji wonders how this epitome of stoicism can express such a number of emotions in just one gesture - or maybe Fuji's just good at reading them, familiarity accumulating across the years, and that's something he feels he can cherish.

That sigh tells Fuji that Tezuka's still waiting for a real answer, probably something Fuji can give him to hold on to, but he won't push until Fuji's ready - he never does, and then there's a different feeling blossoming in a corner of Fuji's heart, something that settles warmer and more precious, like sunlight through glass, more permanent than the impossible thudding.

Tezuka always asks; maybe Fuji's been waiting to answer.

For once. "Well," he begins, and he knows there's this nervous smile on his face, all jittery along the edges, "That, and a number of other reasons."

Fuji lays his head on Tezuka's shoulder and Tezuka doesn't move an inch - doesn't stiffen or flinch or lean away, and it's not the first time he marvels at how comfortable it is, being this close to Tezuka, sharing warmth and breathing the same air.

There's an image in his mind, of warm nights on the coffee-stained sofa, buried under frayed quilts, tips of their toes peeking out below and the slow spreading cold from the floor offset by their feet overlapping and inseparable, fingertips also numb and freezing and tongues nearly scalded by just the one mug of creamy hot chocolate, with tendrils of aroma permeating the air - and Fuji's in a pleasant half-sleep haze with a thin smile hovering on his face, not quite leaning on Tezuka's shoulder but cheek grazing against his sleeve, Tezuka with the novel he's not really reading because his gaze settles on Fuji every time the second hand on the wall clock hits twelve, keeps brushing away that stray lock of hair that falls on Fuji's nose, fingers lingering on the shell of Fuji's ear and breath heating skin, and then his hair tickles Fuji's eyelids as he pulls the quilt up Fuji's collarbone, rustles it so it doesn't fall - this is the picture Fuji preserves in a treasured sanctuary of his mind, the secret place he retreats to when it's dark and snowing and rather lonely, when his feet are tripping on craggy pavement and potholes outside.

The thought grants him the motivation to continue, because just for this he thinks he can give all the honesty Tezuka deserves.

It makes him take a breath, a lungful of the air that's swirling with warm tea and cinnamon and tobacco, breathing in deeply as if inhaling the courage he needs. It makes him smile, and it's not even a little part pretension. "There was no one snoring beside me, for one," he conveys, his voice a near-whisper Tezuka never fails to capture, "No spectacles on my bedside table, no steaming green tea in the mornings."

And being this honest is already one step, and another step braver would not be too groundless - so Fuji sneaks a hand to his side and tangles his fingers with Tezuka's, their fingers fitting just so like always, and he's memorized the calluses on Tezuka's palm from tennis, that little rough patch of skin there, rubs against it with a warming fingertip and squeezes Tezuka's hand when he speaks.

"But mostly," Fuji risks, and he does this because he wants to, "I came back because you knew I would."

Some two three four beats pass, Stevie Wonder cloaking the atmosphere, and Tezuka sips his tea, again, settling the cup on the china plate with an unheard clink. Tezuka's still not facing him when he utters, "Fuji," and then, in all the seriousness that lets Fuji know he's joking, "I do not snore."

The next second Fuji's softly laughing out that little bubbling in his chest while Tezuka's fingers are returning the squeeze and lifting Fuji's hand to kiss his knuckles, eyes drifting soft and shut beneath wire-framed lenses - Tezuka's lips are slightly chapped and dry when he brushes it over Fuji's thumb, just a feather-light caress that's so indulgently slow it's like Tezuka wants this moment to last forever, and it reminds Fuji he has to pester Tezuka to wear lip balm, again, but that can wait until tomorrow when they're curled up on the old couch and curled up against each other like they will never let go.

"Fuji," Tezuka murmurs into the back of Fuji's palm, and then opens his eyes to look at him with so smoldering a gaze that Fuji almost gasps, says in a voice thick with something precious, "Let's go home."

They head home on Christmas Eve and Stevie Wonder's hypnotizing on the speaker singing _baby, everything is all right_.

**end.**

* * *

><p>SAP. Bwahaha. Thank you for reading, and now I sincerely hope you don't suffocate in the corn. Although the world could always use more sap, because sap is what makes the world go round, oh yes.<p> 


End file.
